


Appointment in Samarra

by bacondoughnut



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Delirium, Disturbing Themes, FBI Agent Malcolm Bright, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Malcolm Bright Whump, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, POV Alternating, Stalking, Team Dynamics, Unsettling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27517663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: Even Malcolm Bright doesn't close every case. But there's one in particular from his early days in the FBI that still haunts him. Maybe he's not the only one still plagued by the one that got away.aka; another serial killer shows up with a fixation on malcolm, because the kid can't catch a break i guess
Comments: 46
Kudos: 124





	1. Ablution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this first chapter is from the perspective of the killer, so if that's something that might make you uncomfortable don't read!! it's not super graphic or anything, but just in case <3

"Shhh, shh, sh. Everything is going to be okay, Malcolm. Give it just a second."

He continues to shush him in soothing whispers, running reassuring circles with his thumb over the injection spot at the nape of Malcolm's neck.

It's a cocktail of his own making, one that took years of trial and error to perfect. But that's what it is now. Perfect.

And just in time too.

The effects will emerge in order of necessity. Sedation comes first, that's just pragmatism. Except that he only ever used a proper paralytic once, he prefers it when they can still move. Still respond. They so rarely make the effort to leave him anyway. In a perfect world, that's because they know it's not necessary. They know they're right where they should be. He's going to take good care of them.

Most of them don't know that. Not yet, anyway. It's more likely the numbness they feel that stops them, convinces them that trying would be a waste of energy. Or perhaps it's the artificial calm the cocktail induces.

It's artificial calm, yes. And, in Malcolm's case, so uncharacteristic.

He would know. He's been watching the profiler since the FBI showed up on his radar. Or technically since he showed up on theirs.

Regardless, Malcolm knows he's not supposed to feel this calm. He can sense that the tranquility is chemically manufactured. He's so smart. So smart and observant and quick. It's almost been enough just to sit back and watch the way the gears turn in that beautiful and intricate mind of his.

None of the others ever understood him like Malcolm does. It's exhilarating.

For the moment however, it's not what the two of them need. Malcolm's analytical nature drives a bar between them at times, makes him distrusting and therefore stubborn. He needs Malcolm pliant, like willow stems and all other beautiful things.

Malcolm's eyes drop to half-mast, speaking of a quiet that starkly contradicts the quickening of his breath. The hallucinations, visual mostly, are an undesired but necessary--even intriguing, at times--side effect of the drugs. Later, when Malcolm's mind returns from where he's delivered it, he'll ask what it was Malcolm saw. The final step in understanding this man as well as this man understands him.

But that's for later.

He offers a palliative hum, carding his fingers gently through Malcolm's hair. Tracing his hand carefully down to the back of his neck. It's an ancient defensive instinct and not any cognitive awareness that causes Malcolm to jerk forward, sparse as the action itself may turn out to be.

"I've got you," he tells him in whispers.

There's no one around to overhear. But this is a quiet moment, it's not something he's willing to share, even with the air around them. His hand drifts up to caress the side of Malcolm's face, tracing his thumb tenderly over the bruising on his cheekbone. Malcolm clings to just enough awareness to nudge against his palm. If he were a whimsical man, he might be inclined to believe it's a reciprocation. But he's not delusional, and Malcolm is still stubborn, and more likely it's an effort to push him away.

He's willing to forgive the transgression for now. Malcolm will understand soon enough. He's so understanding, so smart.

But he's indulged in fancy long enough. He sighs and draws his hand reluctantly away.

A phantom chill of Malcolm's skin lingers on his palm. It's not an unwelcome sensation, but perhaps he should wonder that Malcolm is so cool. None of the others seemed quite this cold.

No matter. Nothing the warm bath won't fix.

He withdraws the pocket knife from his pant pocket, notes the infinitesimal twitch of the tendons beneath Malcolm's pale wrist. A muted fear, albeit he must know by now there's no call for it. Unlike the others, he's studied this ritual before stepping into it. Malcolm knows what comes next, he knows there's no call for fear.

He reminds him anyway, "Don't be afraid."

Malcolm doesn't respond beyond a small, drowsy hum. His eyelids flutter delicately.

He cuts quickly through the rope holding Malcolm's wrists in place. The twine falls loosely away and the strip of cotton, in place to prevent rope burn, drifts to the ground after it.

The rope is merely a precaution, if an unnecessary one. It's just that they don't always think themselves worthy of the gifts that he gives them, and they can be stubborn. Malcolm, especially. The rope helps to keep them from giving in to fear, from abandoning him before he can provide them with their true release. But with Malcolm's mind made this malleable by the concoction percolating in his veins, even a gentle restraint is no longer required.

He savors the easy way Malcolm's head finds his shoulder as he helps him up off the floor. A natural drift even despite the sluggish, half-formed protestation that stutters beneath his breath.

Words, even monosyllabic ones like the 'no' he seems to be grasping for, are going to be difficult for awhile yet. But that's okay. They have an understanding much stronger than a mere verbal communication; a confluence of sorts. He forms a bond with all of them, but Malcolm's proven special. He transcends all of that.

Malcolm's important. He can sense that.

"I know," he says. "I'll take care of you."

He's met with no pushback or objection as he guides Malcolm down the hall. Not until they step into the bathroom. There Malcolm groans and buries his face in the cotton of his sweater, nuzzling towards the crook of his neck like a baby lamb. The lights must be too bright.

He sits Malcolm down on the edge of the tub, where he can lean against the wall. Still, Malcolm sags forward the instant he steps away, be it a hazy attempt to follow or an inability to hold himself up. He rushes back, carefully moving Malcolm to sit on the ground instead. Maneuvering him back until certain he's more steady.

"I'm just going to dim the lights. Just lean back and keep your eyes closed a second."

Malcolm yields easily to suggestion.

He does as he's promised and takes a second to dim the lights before returning diligently to Malcolm's side. The sound of the running water no doubt little more than a distant lullaby in Malcolm's muffled brain. He encourages Malcolm to reopen his eyes now but gets little more than a light flutter from his eyelids, lashes like bird's wings or a tall grass.

Leaving the tap to heat, he shifts his attention to loosening first Malcolm's tie, and then the topmost buttons of his shirt.

As his fingers move further down, Malcolm's breathing revives to a quicker pace. None of the others have been aware enough by now to feel such a thing as nerves or anxiety or anything beyond their fog. Malcolm always was special, though.

Special as he might be, he possesses so little strength right now, beyond that of his principles. And as convictions cannot win a battle on their own, Malcolm's hand can't do much more than fumble in an attempt to push his own hand away. The motion is feeble and limp and still a dazzling display of constitution, made all the more magnificent when his voice forms, albeit just barely audibly, the plea of, "No."

"Malcolm," he tuts, one part disapproving, two parts consoling. There's no more pushback at that, but he wants to be sure Malcolm understands. He wants the conflux of their previous encounters. It's for that and for Malcolm's sake that he says, interlacing their fingers together, "I'm not going to hurt you."

Malcolm's head sags back against the wall, his brow furrowing in concentration. But his moment of hard won resolution is quickly fleeting, focus draining into blissful confusion.

He can only imagine the wars being fought on frontlines he's not privy to as Malcolm fights to hold onto concentration, but he can see the battles being lost. The defenses drop away again, and he returns to delicately undoing the rest of the buttons of Malcolm's shirt.

The drugs more than their nexus of thought keep Malcolm still as his sleeves are tugged carefully from each arm.

Malcolm's shoes come away next and prove by far the easiest. He encounters a listless, torpid moment of resistance when he moves to undo the belt. But Malcolm's energy was spent in his fulmination over the buttons. It's a defiance that's smothered before it even fully appears, dissolving instead into a quiet parody of complaint. Noises at best adjacent to words.

The tub is full, with an inviting steam wafting up from the surface by the time he has Malcolm's pants and underwear off. He folds the clothes haphazardly and sets them aside on the sink counter to be dealt with later and turns to Malcolm.

His skin is a study in contemporary impressionism from ribcage to ankles. A complementary shift in pigmentation from its natural pinkish hues to greens and and purples and blues. Most of which are self inflicted; a tumble down a flight of steps in a hasty attempt to reunite with the FBI before he could take him. He doesn't blame Malcolm for that, it was before they got to know each other.

The fresher one decorating Malcolm's jaw was a necessary evil. The violence is distasteful but sometimes required for wrestling them into the locations he needs them or encouraging conversation where they seem hesitant. The blossoming beneath Malcolm's bottommost rib has a similar story.

After tonight it will all be worth it. Malcolm will see.

Still, he's careful not to disturb a single bruise as he maneuvers Malcolm delicately into the bath.

That tension he's been clinging so insistently to comes away with Malcolm's sigh of breath.

He retrieves a washcloth from the cabinet just behind them and kneels down at the edge of the tub. Malcolm remains wholly unresponsive as he starts to gently work any traces of dirt or sweat or the odd streak of dried blood from Malcolm's skin. He speaks quietly as he does, sometimes talking Malcolm through the process, sometimes simply talking. He doesn't find a single indication that Malcolm actually hears a word of it. In a strange way, that almost makes it easier to say it.

He applies a slight pressure over one of the many sore spots decorating Malcolm's venerated flesh. It draws his attention, however slight. Somnolent and yet anxious, he puts forward the effort and manages to say, "What...wh...."

Those are the nearest to words he's still able to form.

"I told you I would take care of you, Malcolm," he answers softly, tenderly. Malcolm pulls in a shuddering breath, equal parts disquieted and reassured at once. He takes to stroking Malcolm's back in long, loving lines with a bar of soap. Coos, "Relax, Malcolm. I'll take good care of you."

"I..."

This asthenic inability to speak almost seems to be frightening him. Seems as though it would be frightening him if not for the chemically induced ease of mind. That almost prison of tranquility clouding his mind prevents any real fear, but some semblance of doubt seems to have needled its way through.

Except that Malcolm shouldn't be saying even this much. None of the others have struggled with giving way to the quiet. It's too fascinating an opportunity to just ignore.

"What is it?" he asks gently, washing what's left of the lather from Malcolm's naked spine with the wet cloth. "You can tell me."

There's no immediate answer. Still, the silence remains unoppressive between them as he tilts Malcolm's head back into his palm. He ghosts his fingers delicately across Malcolm's throat, an intimation of what's to come by the end of the night. And perhaps it's that Malcolm's the only one of them to fully understand this little intricacy, the only one to have studied the ritual before stepping into it. His breath hitches, and he finds a voice once more.

"I don't..." Malcolm starts, lifeless even in this intimate desperation. "Don't...want..."

It incites the slightest panic in his half-lidded eyes as his voice dissolves back into a breathless babble.

"Shh, shh, it's okay," he says, squeezing water from the wet cloth over his face. Gently encouraging him to ease back into senselessness. He doesn't want Malcolm to be afraid. He never wants any of them to be afraid.

Malcolm doesn't argue, as much as he clearly still wants to. His breath is sharper than the others. Malcolm can't argue; he's already losing his grip once more, succumbing back to the chemical sleep.

He continues to whisper reassurance just in case as he lowers Malcolm's head momentarily back against the lip of the tub. He's careful with Malcolm's feet, mindful of the left ankle, still swollen from an unavoidable sprain. Malcolm whines behind the fugue, and he offers a hasty apology before explaining the necessity of the action.

When at last it's time for Malcolm's hair, he switches the tap momentarily back on. Runs a hand under the water to test it before guiding Malcolm's head back once more.

Malcolm gives an enervated struggle until his head comes under the tap. As the water spills over his forehead and down his scalp he stills, letting his jaw hang open in a gratifying sigh. He runs his fingers through Malcolm's wet locks, cooing soporifically.

"I told you I'd take care of you," he says, retrieving the bottle of shampoo from a rack just above them.

Be it his words or the briefest second of his hands pulling way, something draws Malcolm back from the stupor. He moves as if to sit up, although he doesn't quite make it, murmuring in confusion, "I don't..."

"You don't what, Malcolm?"

He works the shampoo into a lather in his hands before massaging it into Malcolm's scalp. Malcolm leans into the touch in an intimation of surrender. A quiet moan escapes his lips before he seems to realize he's doing it, and with the realization comes a reminder of where he is, of what this is. He drags himself briefly out of the torpor with a sharp gasp, finally finding the words he's been grappling for in time to say, "I don't want to die."

"Oh, Malcolm," he says, shaking his head reprovingly as he presses his fingertips in mollifying circles over Malcolm's temples. "You don't have to be afraid. I'll be with you, to guide you. It's all going to be okay."

After he's thoroughly worked the shampoo in he guides Malcolm's head back to the water. Continuing to hush and soothe him with gentle whispers as he rinses Malcolm's scalp. What reservations Malcolm has been clinging to melt away and dissolve into the bath along with the remaining lather, and his neck goes limp, head lolling back.

The weight feels familiar in his hands. Feels right.

And it is right.

He rests Malcolm's head against the lip of the tub once more and gets to his feet, retreating to retrieve his clean clothes. He's picked out a nice suit for the occasion. Black tie. Something that wouldn't look out of place at a celebration or a funeral. Which seems fitting because in a way this is both. Malcolm's scared to die because he hasn't figured out yet that this is a gift. It's release.

Malcolm's going to figure that out before the end of the night. He's so smart, so intuitive, so beautiful. Usually he has to explain, but Malcolm will understand.

He drains the tub and helps Malcolm up out of the tub, drying him dotingly with a towel. Malcolm drifts back into a steady sleep before he's done, and doesn't stir until he's heaving Malcolm back onto his feet to dress him.

Malcolm stands in a wobbly-legged trance as he does up his shirt buttons. He maneuvers the waistcoat on and Malcolm's head finds his shoulder an instant before he has to catch him to keep his knees from hitting the tile. Tutting affectionately, he guides Malcolm backwards and props him against the bathroom counter to finish his work.

Malcolm settles back against the counter tile in a vacant silence, eyelids hanging drowsily, opening and closing in hypnotic rhythm with his breath.

He has to help Malcolm back into the hall, down the stairs. The moonlight through the slats of the blinds casts an illuminating glow as they pass through, making their way to the garden.

Here, Malcolm stumbles. It's taken a profound level of focus, of energy for him to keep his feet this long.

"Not here," he reprimands gently, with a firm shake of his head.

Not in the dirt. It's not clean.

He pushes Malcolm on, until they reach the relative shelter of the pergola. With only a gentle nudge from him, Malcolm collapses onto his knees on the ground. Looks up at him with the most wakeful gaze those eyes have held all night and finds the single word, "Please."

But this is the wrong kind of supplication.

"It's going to be okay, Malcolm," he says, nodding as he steps behind him.

He tilts Malcolm's head back into his palm once more, baring his throat like a lamb brought to slaughter.

He finds the knife in his pocket, the same pocket he always keeps it. A quick sweep across the jugular will be Malcolm's release. It's going to set him free.

But first, "What did you see?"

Release won't come until the question's been answered. The visions are drug induced, they're not prophetic, he knows that. He's not delusional, Malcolm's the only one who seems to register that, and all on his own. But the hallucinations the drug triggers are the key to understanding. To understanding himself, understanding each other; to understanding the gift this is.

Malcolm's breath stutters, a premonition of an answer.

A thundering from inside the house interrupts. The approaching storm. He can hear their shouts from out here. The FBI, ostensibly Malcolm's friends but he knows the truth. They don't understand, they can't. They're not like Malcolm.

Except he won't have time to complete the ritual before they make it to the garden.

He can kill Malcolm now, but without time for the proper ceremony that's all it will be. It won't set either of them free. He won't dishonor Malcolm like that, he can't.

He brushes one final, parting hand through Malcolm's hair. Murmurs, "I'm sorry."

He shivers sympathetically at the way Malcolm's shoulders quiver. With one last glance into his eyes he hopes to convey the apology better than words can. He turns and runs just as the shouts from within the house become crisply recognizable.

-X-

Leaving Malcolm behind in the dirt is his greatest transgression. It's despicable and it plagues him for ages. To have been so close to completing his mission, to setting them both free--for Malcolm would be the one to finally set him free, too, he could feel it. It debases him. It taints every other one of his rituals after. He can't properly be there for them, not while he's so preoccupied with the one he's failed.

Malcolm's so smart, so understanding. Their confluence is the path to transcendence.

It's a path he's set Malcolm upon only to abandon him at the edge of the road. The both of them have been lost, only through each other can they hope to be found.


	2. Abandon

Malcolm feels about as at home at a crime scene as he does at the precinct and both spaces feel more like his than his own loft does at this point. All that keeps him going back there is feeding Sunshine. That, and the tragic human necessity of sleep. Or in his case, of at least trying to sleep.

But why go down that rabbit hole? There's a perfectly good case ahead of them.

He meets the rest of the team at the scene. An old brownstone, grappling with dilapidation and neglect. It's not properly abandoned, but the for sale sign in the property window has been faded by the sun. A difficult sell. Recent events probably won't do much to increase popularity on the market, although the crime scene tape and bustling forensic techs certainly will catch peoples attention.

"Body's around back," JT calls out, bypassing a greeting in favor of indicating the path around to the back of the building. Then, half a step closer with an intrigued nod, "Is that coffee?"

"Americano, right?" Malcolm says, pulling one of the paper cups from the Styrofoam drink carrier.

He checks that the label is the right one before holding it out. JT accepts the offering with only a slight air of suspicion. He eyes the cup, as if he half expects it to be poisoned, before looking back to Malcolm and saying wearily, "Don't tell me you profiled my drink order."

"Sorry to disappoint, I got it from Dani," he says, chuckling. With this confirmation, JT shrugs and takes a tentative sip from the cup. Malcolm presses on, "Although, drink orders can tell you a lot about a person. Yours, for example, suggests that you're practical and grounded. You said the body was this way?"

It's a short walk around to the back of the brownstone.

JT catches him up on what they know; it looks like someone's been squatting inside of the brownstone for at least a couple of days. The body was found by a gardener on the real estate agencies payroll, sent biweekly to maintain the property in the hopes of keeping up resale value.

"We're thinking our guy knew that schedule somehow," JT says.

"Which could mean they knew how much time they needed to finish the job," Malcolm suggests.

This brownstone wasn't chosen by convenience, it's someplace their suspect knew wouldn't be disturbed. On the market, suggesting they wanted to take advantage of the functioning utilities. Lights, running water. But not selling well. They knew they could count on being there. It indicates intelligence, premeditation.

It's possible, even probably, this isn't their first kill. And if that's the case, it doesn't seem likely it's going to be their last.

The scene itself draws his attention before the body.

The garden is in much better condition than the rest of the property. It speaks to its desuetude through vibrant, verdant overgrowth as opposed to the decay of the building connected to it. Someone's been caring for it and not the biweekly gardener with too many properties to manage and too little focus on a low value brownstone like this one.

"Was the inside of the house made more presentable in any way, or did the squatter just sleep there?"

"He cleaned the upstairs bedroom, but otherwise it's pretty shabby," Dani answers seamlessly.

He doesn't have to tell her which of the disposable cups on the tray is for her, the string from the tea bag still dangles out from beneath the lid. She indicates her gratitude with a wordless nod before retreating over towards the pergola. It cambers demurely to the side, as if a strong gust of wind might take it down, but the legs beneath it remain sturdy.

"He always planned to do it out here," Malcolm says, eyeing the back porch thoughtfully.

The backdoor gapes open in a mockery of a gap-toothed smile. He tries to picture the suspect, walking the victim through that door and out towards the garden. Why would they follow?

"We have to consider the possibility that the squatter isn't connected," Gil says reasonably.

Malcolm frees another cup from the drink carrier. A simple black coffee, for the straightforward traditionalist.

Gil narrows his eyes. His suspicion comes from a different place than JT's. They've known each other long enough that he doesn't bother with the pretense of hiding the analytic look, eyes scanning Malcolm up and down in search of anything out of place.

He can't fault Gil for the skepticism. It's not unheard for a small courtesy, say something like a morning coffee, to be a predecessor to something else. A request of a return favor. A confession to some misdoing.

This morning it's just coffee.

It's not an attempt to ingratiate himself with them any further, he's not searching for any Pavlovian response. He's just out of practice. It's been a long time since he's been a part of a team that functions like this one, a cohesive unit, founded on mutual understanding and respect rather than professional interest alone. If he's ever been on a team like this one at all, that is.

As such, he's navigating foreign territory here. But he thinks this is something friends do. Bring each other coffee.

"This location wasn't chosen at random," Malcolm says with a slight shake of his head. He gestures around them, explaining, "Look, the hedge was trimmed where it was encroaching on the path here. The gardener can't have done that, I doubt he was preoccupied with hedge trimming after he found the body. The body..."

He trails off, turning to at last to where the body lay. Just beneath the pergola, shielded from the weather while remaining exposed to the world outside. Well dressed. Arranged carefully across the brick on his back, posed as if about to be lain in a coffin. Put to rest. The blood staining his white shirt red is the only indication of anything violent.

"...carefully arranged. What's that in his hands?"

"Willow stems," Edrisa chimes brightly. "Hi, by the way."

"Hi," Malcolm says. Then, remembering, he pries the last cup free. Holding it out towards her, he explains, "I wasn't sure what your drink was so I took a guess. White chocolate mocha?"

Something sweet, sugary. For the bubbly and optimistic. Still high in caffeine content, for the driven and focused.

"That's perfect. Thank you!"

JT rolls his eyes. Okay, maybe Malcolm does profile their drink orders. Call it an idiosyncrasy.

"In a lot of literature willow often symbolizes grief," Malcolm says, tucking a now empty tray beneath his arm as he shifts back on track. "But, due to its regenerative properties, it can also be associated with healing. Sometimes even everlasting life."

Dani frowns down towards the body. "I'm gonna take a wild guess and say it's the former."

Eyes back on the corpse, he takes in the scene the way he imagines their suspect would have. Through the lens of the unsub, he's no longer looking at just a corpse. Everything is arranged just so, and every detail serves a purpose. His hair has been combed through. His tie done up in an Atlantic knot. He imagines the killer fixing the knot, adjusting it until perfect. It would've required proximity, intimacy. 

"Or some combination of both," Malcolm says, crouching by the ground at the victim's side. Careful to avoid stepping in the blood, of which there is plenty. "Our killer was careful about every detail, look at the cufflinks. The meticulous posing. It's likely he didn't think of this as an act of violence. He cares about them."

"You think this is what caring looks like?" JT scoffs. Grumbles lowly into the mouth of a coffee lid, "Glad you don't care about me."

Malcolm looks away.

"Hang on," Gil interjects. "Them?"

"There's no way this is his first kill," Malcolm says, straightening back up. "It's too neat. He's assiduous, diligent. We're looking for a ritualistic killer. To him this is..."

What is this?

His mind grapples for the proper answer, except it's not the answer he's searching for. He has a distinct impression he possesses that already, tucked safely away behind his mental armaments. Evidence that supports the answer is still being collected, details that might prove or disprove it. Something to explain the shiver creeping up his spine.

"What?" JT prompts. "What is this?"

Familiar.

He concludes lamely, reverently, "A gift."

"Where are you getting that from?" Dani asks. His lack of acknowledgement far from deters her. Preternaturally resolute, she steps deliberately into his line of vision when he fails to look at her. Raises an eyebrow and says, "Bright?"

Malcolm shakes his head, dismissing the spectral fingers stroking through his hair. A series of bellicose blinks serves to ground him back in reality.

It can't be. It's been far too long of a dormant period; Malcolm knows, he did the digging then and he's gone back to it time and again. Ritual killers don't stop. They can't, not until something stops them.

He needs to be sure.

"Edrisa," he asks around the lump in his throat. "Do you know if the victim was bathed before he died?"

"The gardener did say his hair was damp when he found the scene, but that could've been blood. However, going by the shampoo smell," Edrisa says, pausing a second to inhale, as if double checking her nose. "I would say yes. Why do you ask?"

"Unis found some dirty clothes in the bathroom upstairs," Dani adds helpfully. "We assumed they belonged to the squatter, you think they belong to the vic?"

Gil knows him better. He steps forward, action-oriented, but stalls when no action to take presents itself. Saying, "You've seen this before, haven't you?"

"A long time ago. In the FBI," Malcolm says, nodding.

The air hangs heavy with his teams attentive silence. They wait on tenterhooks because now is when he's supposed to elaborate. Tell them that he knows who did this. If he's feeling particularly sharing, maybe even tell them _this_ was supposed to be him not too long ago. Maybe, though, he leaves that particular tidbit out for now. However much he chooses to divulge, now is when he's supposed to divulge something.

But the anticipatory quiet swallows his best explanations.

His profiler brain rotates gears in an effort to shift back into work mode. Something that oughtn't be difficult, work mode is his default setting. He filters the world into clarity with three processes: Observe, analyze, solve.

The mechanism seems to be malfunctioning, however. All he can analyze is the hand he's played in this. Guilt is a paralytic stronger than any chemical.

When things unfolded as they did all those years ago, with Malcolm on his knees beneath a different pergola all the way on the other side of the country, it set him down the path to stop this happening again. But the trail went cold and Malcolm abandoned it. Every death since then is blood on his unsteady hands.

"I thought he was dead," Malcolm says finally, without knowing why he admits it to them. They can't offer the absolution he doesn't deserve but so craves, they don't know what he's done.

He catches the looks swapped between them. Uncertain, cautious, confused.

"Who?" JT asks.

"I need some air."

Maybe that excuse works best when said indoors but it's going to have to suffice. He doesn't leave them time to argue--although that doesn't stop them trying--before brushing past Dani, back around the corner, to the front of the building, to the sidewalk. Maybe it's not an excuse, maybe he actually does need some air. The noise of the crime scene, of reporters and officers and forensics, builds up an oppressive weight in his lungs.

His legs carry him as far as the curb across the street before he stops. They can find him here, if they choose to follow. If not he'll be back soon, he just needs this. A modicum of quiet. A moment, to collect his thoughts.

Gabrielle is in his head, reminding him to focus on grounding techniques. Her voice warmly encouraging, her diction clinically cool. Malcolm calms his breathing just like they've practiced. His diaphragm rises and the fire slips in; diaphragm falls and the smoke drifts out. But he breaths, until the sensation quiets to little more than a stifled cinder.

How they know when he's ready to talk is beyond him, but his team doesn't find him until he wants them to.

He's expecting Gil. The figure that approaches in his peripheral is just as unobtrusively caring as Gil, a quiet permitted by a resolve that speaks for itself. He wonders if she picked that up from Gil or if they were both always predisposed to this eidolonic compassion. The only thing he knows for certain is he can't hide anything from either of them. It's as frustrating as it is comforting.

"Wanna tell me what happened back there?" Dani prompts, taking a seat on the curb to his left.

He lifts his head from his hands with a drawn out breath. He supposes that here, grounded by the concrete of a curb and the muck of a puddle in the gutter, is as good a place for a confession as any. He lets his gaze wander down to the water he's planted a let shoe in, New York City's very own mire. But maybe it's purifying, being anchored by the sludge. An ablution of sorts.

Or maybe Malcolm just really, really needs a nap.

"The man who did this," Malcolm says instead, indicating the brownstone across the street. "His name is Sam Turner."

Dani nods. The cog turns. She asks, "How do you know him?"

"I don't. Not really. I profiled him, we only ever met twice," he says. The correction is just semantics. He would say Turner knows him better than he knows Turner. He understands Turner, that's not the same as knowing. But he's choosing his words too carefully, drawing out the ignominiousness of his asseveration. He presses on, "Shocking as it may be, I did make a mistake or two working for the FBI."

"You? Make a mistake? Stop," Dani says behind poorly faked surprise.

The playful mockery in her tone does more to lighten the tension in his shoulders than any of Gabrielle's breathing techniques have thus far. He averts his gaze before he has to see the humor recede back from her expression.

A moment passes.

Dani bumps his knee gently with her own. A physical nudge to guide the spoken, "So what happened? He got away?"

"Yeah," Malcolm says.

She quirks an eyebrow, as if to say, 'That's it?' Of course she knows there's more.

In their line of work, someone's bound to get away now and then. They do what they can, building ramparts on the most tenacious foundations, palisades from acumen and gray matter. But there's a gap in even the most formidable of structures, someone's going to slip through the cracks. That doesn't mean they have to like it--in fact, it no doubt follows more of them home than just him. But that's not this, and Dani knows it because of course she does.

"Do you remember Colette?" he asks, turning back to her. "Swanson?"

Dani snorts. "Special Agent Axe to Grind? How could I not?"

"Turner killed her partner," Malcolm confesses, clenching his hand into a fist to quiet the tremors. "We were on scene together, I was supposed to have his back. Turner killed him so he could get away with me. I could never figure it out, why he didn't kill me instead. How did he choose?"

Dani places a steady hand over his shaky one. It doesn't go unnoticed, the way her hands always seem to walk the same fine line between personal and professional regard that she does. It works all the same.

But this is intended as commiseration where he deserves, and maybe even seeks censure. She's not understanding the point of this story.

"She never forgave me," Malcolm says.

He wonders how intentional it is, the implication that he never forgave himself either. He's not wholly sure, if it is deliberate, does he hope Dani will admonish him for that, remind him he's not the only one at fault? Or does he want her to tell him he's right? That he never deserved the peace of exoneration?

Whatever Malcolm hopes for, she does neither.

"That why she hates you?" Dani asks instead.

"One reason out of many," Malcolm admits with a shrug and a self-deprecating chuckle.

Dani doesn't laugh. She doesn't even smile.

She's far too good at her job not to see through his deflections from a mile away. Or maybe that's just a side effect of being part of the team. More than likely it's some combination of the two.

"You said he killed Colette's partner so he could get away _with_ you," Dani says. "But you're here, and he's...out there somewhere. Wanna tell me how that happened?"

An amendment to his previous observation, Dani isn't good at her job. She's obnoxiously good at her job. Perceptive in a way he's simultaneously safeguarded and unsettled by. Because the question is only a charade of the accusation it's supposed to be, and he gets the feeling that's actually for his benefit.

She sees right through the veneered layering of his guilt, enough to know he'll only give her the full story as a confession and nothing else. Pity or sympathy won't do, not if she wants an honest answer.

"Well, he took me to a place like this one and tried to kill me. Or...so I'm told."

"So you're told?" Dani echoes, brow furrowing.

"I don't remember most of it. Just a few snippets of conversation. It's a long story, drugs were involved," Malcolm explains, waving a hand dismissively. It's not the full truth. He was with Turner for hours before the drugs muddied his mind, but those are words and insights better left for another time. "Anyway, the team got there before he could do it. But Turner slipped away. The trail went cold."

"You said you thought he was dead."

It's the underlying question to that statement Malcolm answers. "People like Sam Turner don't stop unless something stops them."

It's not unheard of for an unsub to go dormant for a period of time. There are documented cases where they're arrested for a minor infraction, they're serving time without anyone who encounters them knowing how dark their history truly is. But they knew Sam Turner's identity. If he'd been arrested for a misdemeanor, he would've shown up in the system.

And here Turner is, alive.

Malcolm's not sure what to do with that information. There's the possibility he really was going through a quiescent period. Perhaps this is the first victim since he slipped through the cracks. He could've been hiding out, waiting until the FBI's sights were no longer set on him.

That doesn't fit with the profile.

They have to consider the very real possibility that Turner's been active this whole time and they just haven't heard about it. How many others have died under Malcolm's neglectful vigil? And, if Turner's been able to keep himself and his activities hidden this long, why make himself known now? It can't be coincidence.

"Shit."

"I'm going to take a look upstairs," Malcolm says, standing and holding his more stable hand out to help her up as well.

She takes it, graciously, without really needing to, allowing him the small amity of guiding her to her feet. "We looking for something specific?"

In truth he has no idea.

He has a feeling, at least in part, that he's not looking for anything. He just needs to see it clearly, take another look at the innerworkings of Turner's ritual. To see if anything's changed after all these years. Or maybe just to get a glance at what might've happened back then, with a stronger quality of coherency this time. Without the tendrils of a dream state to infringe on his thinking.

"No," he says with conspicuous ease. "But you never know, maybe they missed something."

Dani offers a skeptical hum but she doesn't call him on it.

-X-

He watches the brownstone from afar, at once enthralled and repulsed by the hive it steadily becomes.

Policemen in heavy trampling boots storm all across the yard out back, pulverizing all his hard work. The garden. Once viridescent, ebullient, and pure. Now tainted, demolished. Just like the others.

He reminds himself that he chose this.

It doesn't prevent the completion of the ceremony, this soiling of his ritual grounds. The body he left behind is nothing sacred. It's a simple shell. That man has already been released. Still, it is in poor taste. To let these strangers, with unclean hands and unclear minds, rampage in and out of the brownstone. Up and down the graminaceous grounds.

It's all going to be worth it. Any minute now.

He watches the brownstone from afar until a taxi cab pulls up. The door hasn't opened before he knows what it carries. Redemption.

He wonders if Malcolm will recognize his work. But then, of course he will. He's so smart, so quick. The better question is how long it will take.

Malcolm is meant to find him. This is his invitation.

Even so, it takes all his restraint not to run to him now, when he catches his long lost profiler alone. He feels oddly compelled to pardon Malcolm for their time spent apart when he sees him, undignified as he's become, feet in the mud, head in his hands.

Then _she_ appears.

One of them. She doesn't wear their uniform, but her boots are like theirs; destructive, draconian. She interposes herself in his line of sight, keeping him from Malcolm in more ways than one. She'll be gone in a moment. Malcolm, so smart, so brilliant, he always works alone.

He watches and waits for her to go but she never does.

Malcolm abandons his solitary post at the curb for her. They cross the street together.

He's never seen this before. With the other agents at the FBI, Malcolm was always a pace ahead or a pace behind. With her, he settles easily at her side. It's unnatural in its ease.

There won't be the ecstasy of two halves returning to be whole again with this facsimile of Malcolm.

But his shoes still step lighter than the tell-tale thundering of policeman's boots. Malcolm's purpose can still be fulfilled. All that remains to be seen is whether they can both be released now Malcolm's gone and tethered himself to the dirt. The answer still lies in understanding.

He never did find out what it was that Malcolm saw.

He's going to know very soon. They're going to know very soon.


	3. Appointment

"How'd you sleep, kid?"

The question feels redundant.

The short answer is that he didn't, and he's sure that's perfectly obvious. Possibly the only reason Gil asks in the first place. Because Malcolm wears his fatigue in every pore of his body, from the subtle vibrations rattling through his fingers to the dark circles under his eyes. Nothing new, nothing worth worrying Gil or the others over. But his asking shows Gil feels differently.

Malcolm considers his answer, then settles for the compromise. He smiles through it and admits, "About as well as you'd expect."

"That bad, huh?"

His answer is, thankfully, interrupted by a rap at the door. If Gil wanted honest answers he should've asked Malcolm in his office, not the conference room.

"Hey boss," Dani says, manila folders tucked under her arm. "You ready for us, or am I interrupting?"

"We're ready," Malcolm's quick to say.

Dani looks to Gil, just in case. He sighs and says, "Yeah, come on in."

She steps inside, eyeing the case board on the wall as she moves to sit on the edge of the table. She nods towards Turner's photograph in the top left corner of the board, the one with the question mark drawn next to it in black Expo. Says, "You think he might not be our guy?"

"The willow stems are new," Malcolm says, following her gaze over towards the board. "When we were investigating him before he gave his victims poppies."

"Maybe the closest flower shop was out of poppies," JT supplies flatly from the doorway.

"Giving the victims flowers, that detail was made open to the public."

"You're saying it could be a copycat?"

Malcolm sighs, pushing his chair out and abandoning the table in favor of pacing over to the case board. The fact that Turner bathed his victims, on the other hand, wasn't made public. There's no easy way a copycat would know that.

His gaze settles on one of crime scene photographs. Yesterday's vic was a philosophy professor by the name of William Byrnes.

"Byrnes has rope burn on both wrists," Malcolm says, indicating the photo. "When Turner was active before, he put padding on his victim's wrists to avoid rope burn."

Gil sighs and asks again, "So you are saying it could be a copycat?"

"Unless his ritual has changed somehow."

It's been years since the last active period they know for sure was him. It's possible Turner's delusions have changed somehow. Shifted.

The foundations are still there; the level of care, the careful construction and preparation behind every kill. But the Turner that Malcolm studied was averse to violence, saw it as distasteful, if pragmatic. He avoided it wherever he could. And this isn't the crime of a sadist, he still doesn't enjoy inflicting pain. He's just taken no measures to avoid it.

If it is Turner, that could indicate that his mental state is deteriorating. The foundations are still there, yes, but his moorings are built on sand.

Things will only get worse the longer it takes them to bring him in.

-X-

It's taking longer than he hoped for Malcolm to find him.

Perhaps he's becoming impatient. He was meticulous about not leaving any clues behind, but he has his reasoning. It's not Malcolm he expects to deter by transforming himself into a phantom, it's just his new friends. They won't be able to follow the trail, he's confident. Malcolm's different. Malcolm still understands him, he knows it.

He thinks back to their time together. To the way, even under the influence, Malcolm's head found his shoulder so easily when he was weary. Like two separate pieces of a puzzle.

Things have changed but their connection is still there. Malcolm's still drawn to him, by forces beyond either of their control.

It just might take a little nudge to remind him.

-X-

Dani isn't answering her phone.

Dani's late for work and she isn't answering her phone, and that's concerningly out of character on a good day. This isn't a good day. They have a killer on their hands. One that's outfoxed the FBI before, so is it that far of a stretch to think he might be able to slip the NYPD's defenses too? One that's devolving.

They can't know what Turner's capable of now, and Dani isn't answering her phone.

Malcolm's already halfway out of the precinct when JT catches up with him. Which is probably for the best because Malcolm's just remembering he doesn't know where he's going.

As many times as Dani's driven him home, he's never once seen her place. But JT has. They're on the same page as they wordlessly open and shut the respective doors to JT's car. There's no space for conversation on the drive, the air is too consumed with their worries. Traffic is what it always is, but it feels like a purgatory all its own as they sit there, the dull ringing of a line going unanswered the only interruption to their nervous quiet.

JT's keys are barely out of the ignition before their doors are swinging open.

JT bangs on her door loud enough to disturb every neighbor Dani's got. When they're not met with an immediate response, he does it once and then twice more.

Malcolm takes a step back and scans the hallway.

Nothing seems out of place. The carpet is freshly vacuumed, with a few decorative scuffs from the toes of tenants shoes, but no dragging pattern is left to guide them. The decorative potted plant at the end of the hall sits perfectly upright, undisturbed by any stray kicks. There's no signs of any sort of struggle.

There's also no answer at the door.

What there is, Malcolm realizes upon looking down, is a small bundle of willow stems left at the step.

"JT," he says, with dawning horror.

"Oh hell no."

-X-

He's chosen an ancient greenhouse for their meeting place.

He could've chosen anywhere in the world. He chooses the greenhouse because it feels peaceful, tranquil even. Or at least, it will feel tranquil, after he silences the cop. But there's a verdant ivy dangling tantalizingly from the greenhouse rafters, a hint of birdsong from somewhere to his left. The floor is grimy soil, but that doesn't matter anymore. The dirt won't matter anymore.

He leaves behind everything Malcolm needs to find him at the cop's apartment.

It only proves how well they can still understand each other, then, that Malcolm arrives precisely and faithfully on time. Unarmed and alone, just as he's always been.

He carried a weapon in his FBI days, yes, but even then he was unarmed. As loathe to fire the gun as anyone could be expected to be over having it fired at them. In those days they shared their repugnance for violence. Now it's a glaring difference, because he's had to make compromises over the years, to keep the mission going. As understanding as he is, Malcolm will appreciate that.

Except that it's beginning to appear as if this isn't even his Malcolm, because the profiler can only seem to focus on one thing.

"Let Dani go, Sam."

He does his best to channel his frustration out through his nostrils in one quick breath. Says, "Why?"

It's just to gain an insight into this mimeographed version of Malcolm before him, how his thought process has shifted after all this time. He needs to know this Malcolm will know what the last one saw. He doesn't care what happens to the cop really. She has no comprehension of the ritual, and he has no desire to be any closer to her. What has she done to deserve his gifts?

"It's not really her you want," Malcolm says.

It passes the first test, so he allows it when Malcolm takes the smallest of steps closer. He catalogues it, the way the fallen petal from a gardenia flower crunches beneath the toe of Malcolm's shoe.

Perhaps it's simply obvious that the cop isn't who he wants. Perhaps this isn't the Malcolm he knows at all.

"How would you know what I want?"

"Because we understand each other," Malcolm says, inching closer still. "Let Dani go, and I can help you. You don't have to hurt anyone anymore."

The underlying implications of that suggestion are steadfast in their betrayal.

"I am not delusional," he all but snarls.

The steps freeze. Another leaf crunches.

"I know," Malcolm says, with propitiating intent. He doesn't know, not really. If he did, he wouldn't care about the cop. Not when honest transcendence is so close. Malcolm's rejecting his gifts. "I know you're not. But Dani isn't part of your mission."

Maybe that's true, and maybe Malcolm only wishes it to be. There's no way to be certain yet. He has to believe they can still get through to each other. Achieve some semblance of the congruency he envisioned for them.

"She's infected you. They all have," he says. "I gave you a rare gift, Malcolm. Something pure."

His explanation seems to give Malcolm pause.

The cop squirms and it draws both of their attention away from more important matters. He taps the point of his knife against her windpipe in warning. Even if he does kill her, it won't be with this knife. He won't taint it before a ritual.

"Maybe--" Malcolm starts. His argument is made entirely of vehemence, lacking in words. The cop is distracting him. He's usually so smart, so good with words. "Maybe I wasn't ready to accept it."

There's too much uncertainty to make it a lie. Too much doubt to make it the truth.

He hates asking, "What does that mean?"

"I looked for you. After that night. I couldn't find you." The way Malcolm nods is hypnotic and he finds himself mirroring the motion as Malcolm speaks. Says, "That wasn't a coincidence, Sam, it was...providence. It was supposed to happen here."

As if to demonstrate his conviction, Malcolm kneels down on a weathered stone in the path. Chin lifted, as if in offering. For a moment, he actually considers it.

 _It._ Harmony. The two of them, reunited to be found.

The answer dispels the lion's share of his worries, but one remains as plain as a pikestaff.

"What did you see?"

The instant the understanding flickers across Malcolm's eyes he knows the truth. He's maybe known it all along, he just wasn't willing to see it. The promise of unity was the driving force behind every step he's taken since that night. Now he sees that maybe he has been deluding himself. They aren't two perpendicular lines, destined to converge at a single axis. They're equidistant. Malcolm doesn't want to be found, he likes being lost.

He's given Malcolm a rare gift, and the man doesn't want it. Would rather struggle down in the dirt than face the daunting veracity of release.

He steps away from the cop and walks closer, until he's near enough to card his fingers once again through Malcolm's hair. Let there be this, at the end of everything. A simulacrum of forgiveness, even as time ticks on towards the end.

He looks down at the ceremonial blade in his hand, allowing himself a moment to grieve before drawing his arm back.

"NYPD! Drop the knife and put your hands where I can see them!"

-X-

It's nice to know that Gil's timing is as impeccable as ever.

From there everything is almost disturbingly routine. JT cuffs Turner and whisks him away. There's Gil's hand on his cheek, turning Malcolm's face towards him with avuncular worry. He's scanning Malcolm's eyes for...something. It's not clear what he's looking for, he either finds it or he doesn't. But there's a decisive nod before the hand, and Gil's scrutiny both withdraw. The interaction lasts a whole half a second.

As soon as Malcolm trusts himself to get to his feet, he crosses the greenhouse to assist Gil in untying Dani.

She walks out of the greenhouse without so much as a bruise, and Malcolm can finally breathe again.

The EMTs still insist on looking them both over.

In the end he finds Dani sitting on the hood of someone's car, the steady diminuendo of the techs and unis finishing up with the crime scene in the background. He indicates the space at her side with a small nod and a, "This seat taken?"

"Go ahead," she says with an infinitesimal hint at a smile.

He leans awkwardly against the hood next to her, only then realizing he doesn't know what he wants to say to her.

An apology might be in order. He doesn't believe Turner ever intended to harm her, but that doesn't make the experience any less significant. That doesn't change the fact that she was in danger. That he put her in danger.

Dani won't want an apology. She'll only say she puts herself in danger every day. That doesn't wash away a fleck of his guilt in this. It does drown the inadequacy of an apology on his tongue.

They must appear as quite the pair there. With their matching shock blankets, they also wear complementary silence, and twin exhaustion.

She breaks the silence with a simple question, to which there is no simple answer. "You weren't gonna let him do that, were you?"

The familiarity of the question strikes him unexpectedly.

Perhaps he doesn't answer fast enough, perhaps she's just as aware of the echoes as he is, but somehow he thinks she already knows the answer. Maybe even better than he does.

"Of course not," he answers regardless, tugging self-consciously at the corner of the shock blanket draped like a cape across his shoulders. It does little to provide the comfort it advertises but then, he's not in shock. "I was just buying time until backup got here."

"Bright," is all Dani says.

She gives him a look adjacent to the one Gil does; except where he was looking for something, it's like she already knows what she'll find. Her gaze looks right through him, past the walls he's so carefully constructed, through his skin, between the sinews, all the way down to the deep, dark secrets he keeps.

He supposes the 'You can't bullshit me' goes unspoken.

"I don't know," he says, and it feels staggeringly honest. He adds without really knowing why, "I'm sorry."

Dani swallows. Nods.

There's no room for the illusion of fine lines this time. Her hand finds his, clutches it and stays there.

"You don't have to be," she says, shaking her head.

Maybe not, but that doesn't mean he isn't.

He's so sorry it seeps into his bones and bogs down his limbs until they feel disconnected from the rest of him. He's so sorry he's certain it's blatantly obvious, if not in his eyes then in his hands. The one in Dani's grasp she strokes reassuringly, almost absent-mindedly, as if such a simple comfort could ever hope to dispel his contrition.

The most unbelievable part is that it very nearly works.

"You're worth keeping around, Bright," Dani tells him after an instant, a reminder that's somehow elegiac and warm all at once.

A movement in his peripheral catches his attention. He turns instinctively to look. Gil and JT appear to have just spotted him and Dani in their poor excuse of a hiding place. Their conversation is too far off to overhear, but JT offers a nod of recognition when he catches Malcolm's gaze.

Dani gives his hand a light squeeze and adds, "You know that, right?"

The question comes just in time for Gil to crush him in an embrace that gives proper meaning to the term bearhug. He orders him affectionately never to pull another stunt like this one again before withdrawing. When Gil's out of the way, JT steps up to smack Malcolm's shoulder in a distinctly brotherly fashion.

And okay, maybe Malcolm doesn't know that. Not really. 

But maybe he's starting to, and maybe that's enough.

Dani laughs easily as JT recounts, with some comedic tweaks in detail, his, Gil's, and Malcolm's combined panic when they couldn't get a hold of her. She shrugs and says, "That's fair. I mean, you guys _are_ basically useless without me."

"And don't we know it," Gil concedes with a chuckle.

And yeah. At least for tonight, that's enough.


End file.
